When Maggie asked about happiness, my alter ego submitted a somewhat cryptic comment. Taken out of context it might be perceived as a cry for help, not the teenage angst laden impression I wanted to leave. Maggie requested an explanation, so here we are. Some sentiments are best not expressed in brevity.

When I first dated the Mister, one thing he mentioned about his previous marriage was how unhappy his partner was. In her mind, he was expected to make her happy. He said it took him years to realize he wasn’t exclusively responsible for another person’s happiness. I’ve never had that expectation of him. Others contribute to my happiness (and he contributes much), but they aren’t responsible for it, that is my burden alone.

There is a tendency for society to measure emotion in absolutes, i.e., it you are not happy than you must be unhappy. Unhappiness may be the opposite of happiness, but it is not the only alternative.

I don’t strive for happiness. Happiness is a bonus, like an unexpected kindness. What I work toward is contentedness and calm. It sounds like an argument in semantics, and even Merriam-Webster is inclined to agree. Happiness IS a state of contentedness, but with additional accessories, like joy and delight.

I am contemplative, sarcastic, brooding, compassionate and grouchy, but it doesn’t mean I’m unhappy. I’m introspective. As long as our world is a playground for war, poverty, and selfishness, I will feel troubled. Those flaws of humanity don’t prevent my happiness, but they inhibit its permanence.

I try to be calm when negative things happen and content with my life (not complacent, I WILL work to improve things). The desire to be calm might not seem like much of an aspiration, but it is useful. I try to accept the world is bigger than me, there are needs greater than mine, and when someone does me ill, it isn’t always personal. By not taking things so personally, I can conserve energy for something worthwhile, that expended under the pretense of indignant anger is just a waste.

I commented to Maggie, happiness was more elusive than calm and contentedness, and often depended upon utterly ridiculous things. Brief glimpses of humanity make me happy, watching the two-year old next door pee on his father’s roses, laying on the sofa with my head in my partner’s lap, watching police officers eat ice cream, and hearing a pearl of wisdom escape the mouth of a an eight year-old. Maybe these things are ordinary, but they make me smile and the shift the momentum of my day. Happiness can come from great things, but I treasure the joy that arrives unexpected.

Completing a drawing, painting or collage makes me happy, but happiness seldom drives me to start the project in the first place. Instead the desire to create is usually driven by those other bastards, contemplation, brooding, and voicelessness, but they don’t make me unhappy.

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